


To free you from your roots (I had to cut myself down)

by teacuphuman



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Hale Fire, Biting, Bonding, Dream Sharing, Happy Ending, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Nemeton, Oral Sex, Prophetic Dreams, Self-Sacrifice, Sleepwalking, Spark Stiles Stilinski, supernatural bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 09:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15337269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: There’s a tree there, he knows, one larger and more important than anyone understands. He’s seen it in his dreams; walked around its massive trunk and pressed his hands into its bark. It’s not the tree of life, but it holds something just as precious. It feeds the forest and the earth, and it keeps the balance. It whispers to him in his dreams and now it calls to him while he’s awake because it’s time.Stiles isn’t sure for what, but the tree needs him. It’s waiting there, ready to show him his destiny. There’s a rustling behind him, the sound of wolves crashing through brush, but he can see the tree now. The Nemeton. Standing potent and resilient, it’s branches climbing higher than Stiles can see and it’s roots so deep and strong they exist in another universe.He knows now what waits for him here, what the tree has to offer him. It’s the man. The one he knows so well in his mind. The dark-haired one with shining blue eyes and pointed ears and teeth. A werewolf. The werewolf.





	To free you from your roots (I had to cut myself down)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Teen Wolf Reverse Bang and the incredible art of @originfire!
> 
> Events surrounding the Hale fire went a little differently in this fic in that Kate still murdered Derek's family, but she also enlisted the help of someone magical to ensure that Derek felt the fire as it burned. I did this so I have the option of writing more for this universe because the art was THAT inspiring!

 

**One**

  
  


One minute Derek’s sitting in his desk in homeroom, the next he’s on the floor, howling and clawing at the agony in his chest. There’s ash in his mouth and smoke in his lungs. The charred air of everything he holds dear sears the fragile hairs inside his nose, and he dry heaves until his throat is raw. He can feel the fire inside him as well as he can smell it, flames licking up his arms and melting the flesh to his bones. The unbearable heat that eats him alive, bringing to life the horror of his pack turning to dust. 

 

He runs.

 

Past the school and through town to the preserve that has housed his kind since before Beacon Hills had county lines or a place on the map. By the time he reaches the house it’s too late, the flames have done their work and the screams have stopped. His Alpha is dead and the heartbeats he’s heard since birth have gone silent. 

 

He sinks to the dirt, drained and sobbing, his claws buried deep in the soil he helped his father turn just last week. He’s weak; alone and unprotected without his pack. Laura’s in San Diego on a band trip, but she may as well be on the moon for all the good it does him when the ground starts to shake.

 

The wind picks up and the trees lining the yard groan with the force of it. The flames dance wickedly and for a moment he worries the whole preserve will burn. The town. The state. The world. Such is the force of the wind now pinning him to the ground. The pressure on his body and in his ears is enough to choke the breath right out of his chest.

 

And then it stops.

 

The fire continues, but there’s no sound. No crackle and pop of the heat decomposing the wood of the house. No tinkle of broken glass when the study windows burst outward from the pressure building inside the inferno. But there’s something else missing. Something he has no name for. Something that was more than a part of him, a part of this place. Something basic and essential to his survival that he didn’t register until it was gone.

 

He jerks to his feet, forced into motion by a pull behind his sternum, a focused, relentless tug that has him moving for the trees. He’s cold and tense, like the wind is inside him now, keeping him staggering further into the preserve, towards the sucking draw of emptiness. For a brief, wistful minute he thinks it’s leading him to his family. That somehow, someone escaped and is waiting for him.

 

That hope dies when he sees the Nemeton. 

 

He knows instantly that the wild sense of being crushed from the inside out is the absence of his pack in these woods and on this land. It’s the balance that until now has so carefully been held in check. The Nemeton forgave him for Paige’s death last year, accepting it as a sacrifice and using it to grow. But the death of a pack demands retribution. 

 

His own survival isn’t enough to settle the power the Nemeton commands and he realizes then that wherever Laura is, her eyes are shining red and her heart is breaking, alone and shaking with power. She’s the alpha, but she’s young and untested, and the Nemeton wants the balance restored  _ now _ .

 

He starts to struggle when the trunk cracks open, a golden light shining in the gloom of the forest. He throws himself to the floor and claws at the earth, trying to drag himself from the magic pulling him in. He’s in full shift, muscles burning with the effort of fighting the Nemeton’s will. He knows it’s no use, he’s grown up hearing of the immense power of the tree and how this world depends on the stability it provides, but at that moment he doesn't care. He’s lost and desperate, and all he wants is his pack.

 

Roots loop around his ankles, snaking their way up his legs, almost as gentle as they are unbreakable. The Nemeton feels his pain and it knows of his fears, it simply doesn’t care. It can’t, he figures. In the grandness of the universe, he’s nothing but a speck. A simple beta werewolf with just enough power and magic to heal the wound left behind by the murder of his family.

 

Derek gives in, going limp and letting the Nemeton drag him down. It’s cool and damp inside, but there’s a space for him amongst the roots; a swaddle of life and energy that welcomes him, coiling around his limbs until he’s suspended in the space beneath the tree. Not the cellar where Paige died, but the place between this realm and the next, where Derek can exist safely while the tree feeds off of him. The last thing he sees before the light fades is he shocked face of a child, amber eyes in a pale face, reaching out to save him.

  
  


**Two**

 

Stiles wakes up in the preserve. He’s confused, not because he went to sleep in his bed, in his house, but because he’s standing between two massive trees and not laying in the dirt and leaves. He checks his feet, which are dirty, but not scratched, and gives himself a mental pat on the back for apparently discovering how to teleport in his sleep. Deaton’s going to be thrilled.

 

It’s not like Stiles wills these things to happen, they just sort of...do. Like lighting a table on fire when an asshole T.A. marked him unfairly after he proved the guy’s thesis wrong, or zapping Gilles the one-night stand across the room when they were really getting into it and Gilles pulled his hair harder than he likes. It just happens without Stiles having to think about it. And the whole lighting up like a freaking gloworm when he comes? Not his favourite thing in the world. Needless to say, school and his sexlife are on hold for the moment. Which is why Stiles is back in Beacon Hills while his friends are free to finish off their semesters in peace.  

 

Stiles knows he’s a spark, has known it since high school, really, but no one told him there was more to it than being able to manipulate mountain ash and having a semi-supernatural power of belief. But since he’s been home Deaton has introduced him to things he never knew existed. Druids, and hellhounds, and wendigos, oh my! 

 

Now Stiles’ whole world feels made up of the supernatural and instead of the willful ignorance he managed to hold onto before, he’s been thrust into the middle of his new reality. I mean, it wasn’t a secret that Beacon Hills was home to one of the oldest werewolf families, or at least what was left of it after the fire, but it wasn’t really something Stiles had to think about every day. Now though, well, now Laura freaking Hale thinks it’s totally acceptable to scare the shit out of him on a regular basis by showing up in places he doesn’t expect her to be. Like his jeep. And his backyard. And his bathroom. The woman has no boundaries and she’s determined to wear him down.

 

See, Laura’s the last of the Hales, and she inherited a very large, very powerful piece of land. Something that, according to her and Deaton, needs more than just an Alpha’s power behind it. It needs an emissary. And it’s not that Stiles has anything against commanding, intelligent, and terrifyingly beautiful women, it’s the whole binding himself to them for the remainder of his natural life that’s the issue.   

 

And she keeps creeping him out, telling him he smells like he belongs to her, and how he’s already part of the pack because she can hear his heartbeat across town. Plus the whole lurking thing. He’s flattered, but no thanks. 

 

Stiles stares up at the stars and wonders if Laura’s nearby. The moon is full so her and the wonder triplets must be running in the preserve, but Stiles can’t remember if their senses are heightened on these nights, or if their instinct to let their inner wolves take over drowns out the common sense it would take for her to find him on purpose. 

 

Stiles grew up in Beacon Hills and spent his formative years dragging Scott around the preserve, searching for answers to the legends the townspeople told about the beasts that lived there, so he knows these woods. Knows them even better now that Deaton insists he let Laura take him on ‘hikes’ to ‘learn the land’ and other transparent bullshit like that. Dates is what they really were, and he protests every one. He likes Laura, he really does, she’s funny, and smart, and her smile is killer, but Stiles hasn’t been attracted to women since Lydia Martin ripped his heart out of his chest and fed it to him his sophomore year. Figuratively speaking. Although, Lydia’s a banshee and Stiles fuzzy on what exactly she’s capable of.

 

Laura’s admitted she’s not attracted to him either, but says she can’t ignore the pull she feels to keep him safe and have him at her side. She says sometimes the land chooses its champion and there’s no way around it, even if the two of them are eight years apart and not at all what the other is looking for. The real problem is, Stiles feels it too. 

 

He huffs out a frustrated breath and starts to walk. The section of trees he’s in isn’t immediately familiar, but he knows in time he’ll hit on something he recognizes, and anything is better than standing in the cold and waiting for his werewolf intended to rescue him. He’s no damsel in distress and he knows her betas will never let him live it down.

 

So he walks. And he walks some more. And he doesn’t start to worry when none of the rocks or trees look like the ones he’s expecting. His heart certainly doesn’t kick up a notch when he realizes he can’t hear anything beyond the hushed rustling of leaves, but when he trips and falls, gashing his hand on a jagged rock, and watches, in the light of a conjured flare, as the wound heals itself, he maybe starts to panic. But only a little.

 

Because that’s never happened before and it’s definitely not in the emissary handbook Deaton seems to be teaching from. Only shifters can heal like that, and he’s no shifter. Laura’s offered, but Stiles is firmly in the ‘staying as human as possible’ camp. His dad can only take so much change and Stiles being a spark is weird enough.

 

Stiles keeps going, wiping his still bloodied hand on his pajama pants and stumbling forward. His flare bounces over his shoulder, keeping pace with his disjointed hurrying, until the path he’s on opens to a clearing. This place, he knows. If he heads west, he’ll be at the rebuilt Hale house and he’ll be safe and warm until Laura gets back in the morning. The wards recognize him and he can curl up on the couch and enjoy a post-full moon breakfast with the others. 

 

But his flare shoots into the trees to his left, going east and fading into the darkness of the forest. Stiles tries to pull it back, willing it to return or extinguish, but it’s as though his magic has a mind of its own. He may not fully understand his powers yet, but he knows he can’t leave it out there for someone else to find. It’s a part of him and he can’t abandon it. 

 

So he goes east, growing colder and more weary the further into the brush he walks. The air is heavy and moist here, like it’s a completely different ecosystem than the rest of the preserve; something more tropical and oppressive. He’s back in a section he doesn’t know, and the trees are taller, reaching upward until their branches tangle and block out the light of the moon. 

 

His flare stays out of reach, shining just bright enough to lay a trail for Stiles to follow, leading him somewhere he’s not sure he wants to go. When he passes an outcropping of rocks that remind him of the pirate ship bed he had as a kid, he pauses. He knows this place. 

 

But it’s not from his childhood wanderings or his hikes with Laura. Stiles has only ever been here in a dream.

 

**Three**

 

His flare bounces back to him when he stops moving, dipping closer and closer to him like it’s worried about his delay. But Stiles can’t go on because the subtle tug that he feels for Laura, that little drag he likens to pulling a stray hair from beneath his shirt, is nothing compared to the wrenching tow he feels right now. It’s charged and dense, like a lightning bolt made of golden filaments that dance and float as easily as his flare; a natural extension of himself. 

 

Laura has never felt like this to him, not even close. This is something better, something more. Something meant for Stiles alone. And whatever it is, it’s close. As soon as he recognized the rock, he remembered every dream he’s had of this place. Dreams he had no recollection of once he was awake, but that left tears on his cheeks and a longing in his soul. Whatever is waiting beyond the rock has been calling to him since his powers manifested and if it isn’t the cause of them, then it’s the reason  _ for _ them. Whatever is out there is for Stiles and it needs him.

 

His flare spins dizzyingly fast when he steps forward and the tether throbs softly, urging him on. He can’t see anything beyond the next grouping of trees, but he can’t find it in himself to be scared. There’s a tree there, he knows, one larger and more important than anyone understands. He’s seen it in his dreams; walked around its massive trunk and pressed his hands into its bark. It’s not the tree of life, but it holds something just as precious. It feeds the forest and the earth, and it keeps the balance. It whispers to him in his dreams and now it calls to him while he’s awake because it’s time.

 

Stiles isn’t sure for what, but the tree needs him. It’s waiting there, ready to show him his destiny. There’s a rustling behind him, the sound of wolves crashing through brush, but he can see the tree now. The Nemeton. Standing potent and resilient, it’s branches climbing higher than Stiles can see and it’s roots so deep and strong they exist in another universe.

 

He knows now what waits for him here, what the tree has to offer him. It’s the man. The one he knows so well in his mind. The dark-haired one with shining blue eyes and pointed ears and teeth. A werewolf. The werewolf. 

 

He flushes at the memories that return, of clawed hands on pale flesh and blunt teeth on a bared neck. Of intimacies he can’t believe he’d forgotten that rear up, vivid and bright against the back of his eyelids. His breath grows short and he’s swelling in his pants, a hunger he’d thought a fantasy building inside his heart.

 

The tree is opening itself to him, drawing him into its golden light as the rustling grows louder. Panting breaths, bare feet on packed earth, and a howl splits through the night. The alpha werewolf, angry and scared, calling for one of her own. 

 

Stiles can taste her fear when Laura screams his name, but it’s too late. He’s where he belongs and there’s no going back.

 

**Four**

 

It’s dark and cold like a slap in the face and Stiles shivers. His flare has disappeared back inside him and it refuses to come out when called. Whatever spell brought him into the tree is broken and he takes a minute to fully panic, digging his fingers into his biceps and cursing his own stupidity.

 

His nose is running and if he gets out of here Laura, his dad, and Deaton are going to take turns killing him. There’s packed earth at his back and only darkness in front, and for one wild, euphoric moment, Stiles imagines he’s floating in pure nothingness. Then he shatters it by curling his toes into the dirt and getting poked with a tree root. He hisses at the pain of the root stabbing at the fragile flesh under his toenail and conjures his flare almost without thought. 

 

He stumbles back into the curve of the otherworldly crawl space because he’s not alone down here. Tangled in the roots of the Nemeton, suspended in midair and unconscious is the werewolf from his dreams. Stiles steps forward and his flare follows, bobbing gently between them and lighting up the werewolf’s face. He’s even more beautiful than Stiles remembers, even in full shift with his heavy brow and delicately pointed ears. The tips of his fangs peek out from his upper lip and the hair along his jaw and cheeks is thick and dusted with the dirt that covers most of his face, all the way up to the vibrant blue eyes that are now starting at him.

 

Stiles startles and jumps back, his flare buzzing around the wolf’s head until a deep growl fills the cavern and Stiles forces the flare to stop. The wolf’s eyes narrow as he takes in Stiles’ presence and after a moment they widen in what seems to be recognition and he whines, high and panicked.

 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Stiles says, stepping closer. “It’s okay.”

 

He raises his hands but doesn’t touch, unsure of how the werewolf will react. The whine softens but doesn’t stop as the wolf strains against the tree roots, his body taut and the muscles of his neck bulging as he tries to reach Stiles.

 

“Okay, I’m here, calm down.” Stiles places a tentative hand on the wolf’s shoulder, hoping it’s not within snapping distance of those fangs. As soon as they touch, the wolf slumps into his bindings and lets out a small whimper.

 

Stiles rubs the hot skin under his hand, trying not to notice the layers of dirt that scrape his palm. The wolf’s arms are free of the roots, hanging limp in the space beside Stiles, and as he watches, the claws retract, leaving perfectly normal, dirt-blackened nail beds in their wake. Stiles lets his gaze travel over the tree roots that hold the wolf, surprised at how they seem to support rather than restrain, as though the wolf is nestled within the tree’s embrace. His eyes widen when he realizes the wolf is naked, which really shouldn’t be a surprise since he’s always naked in Stiles’ dreams. But there’s a difference between dream nudity and stark-reality-three-feet-from-your-face nude, okay? 

 

In his dreams Stiles couldn’t feel the heat of the werewolf, didn’t notice the rough hairs that dust his legs and ass, and good god, that ass. Stiles tries to stay objective, to make sure the wolf isn’t hurt, but he’s still half hard in his pants and the wolf is practically purring under his touch. Which has moved to the wolf’s back without Stiles noticing. Great. 

 

His fingers dislodge some of the caked dirt there, revealing a curve of thick, black ink. He brushes harder, using his nails to remove more of the mud and the wolf arches into the touch with a soft moan. Stiles stifles his own noise and moves closer, squinting at the tattoo he’s slowly uncovering. He realizes he can smell the wolf, a rich, earthy scent that must come from his time spent under the tree, but there’s something else there as well, a crisp apple scent and something darker, more musky that has Stiles taking deep, long sniffs through his nose until he’s close enough that the wolf can wrap his arm around Stiles’ thigh to keep him near.

 

“You’re really here,” the wolf croaks, and Stiles pulls back, stumbling when the arm tightens around him. Green eyes meet his and his breath gets caught in his throat when he sees the wolf has shifted into the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.

 

“I dreamed of you,” he continues, and Stiles wishes he had some water because the wolf’s voice is dry and rusty from disuse. As he thinks it, as tree root snakes over the wolf’s shoulder and slips into his mouth. The wolf’s suck are greedy, cheeks hollowing beautifully as water dribbles from his mouth and down his chin to land in the moist earth below. It’s practically obscene and Stiles flushes and looks away, focusing on the roots themselves. They’re thick a strong, but not as wide as those that continue into the ground under his feet. They hold the wolf at strategic places; calves, hips, lower back, shoulders, to keep him comfortable and secure, and if he stills himself, Stiles can see the gentle throbbing where they pull whatever it is they get from the wolf out of him.

 

“I didn’t think you were real,” Stiles admits, sneaking a look at the wolf’s face.

 

The root retracts, leaving the wolf panting as he reaches out once again for Stiles. “Come here.”

 

“I think I’m supposed to get you out of here,” Stiles tells him, eyes fluttering when the wolf’s hand slips under his t-shirt to press against his skin.

 

“I’ve been here forever,” the wolf whispers, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of Stiles’ stomach. 

 

Stiles stutters out a breath and slumps forward, leaning over the wolf because holy christ, he’s never felt anything as electric as being touched by him. “No, I remember when you were taken. I was in the woods, do you remember?”

 

The wolf shakes his head, a line of confusion appearing between his brows.

 

“Do you know your name? Or when you got your tattoo?” Stiles prompts.

 

The wolf frowns some more, his brows looking so thunderous it’s almost comical and Stiles has to soothe the crease between them with his thumb, smiling tentatively when the wolf looks up at him in surprise. The roots creak and groan as they shift and then the wolf is standing in front of him, hand still under Stiles shirt.

 

“Whoa,” Stiles whispers. The wolf as a man is tall, taller than Stiles, but he suspects the wild nest of hair on his head is giving him a few extra inches. He’s wide too, muscular and shapely in that way Stiles knows comes naturally to wolves, born and turned. 

 

“I saw you as a boy,” the wolf tells him, eyes roaming over Stiles’ body. “When I first came to the tree. You tried to save me.”

 

Stiles smiles, a little embarrassed, but he can’t look away. “Yeah, the Nemeton didn’t like that. I still have a scar on my back from it flinging me away.”

 

“It hurt you?” he asks, seeming confused again.

 

“I think it was only because I tried to get to you. It felt like, well, like it needed you.”

 

The wolf nods, his gaze going wide as he tries to remember. “It needs me.”

 

“What do you remember about the day it took you?”

 

“Not much. The call of the tree. A golden light. You.”

 

Stiles cups the wolf’s cheek. “Your tattoo is a triskele. It’s the symbol used by the Hale Pack. I think you’re Derek Hale.”

 

Recognition lights the wolf’s eyes and they flare blue. “Alpha?”

 

“Laura,” Stiles tells him, grabbing his wrist when Derek whines. “She’s alive, she’s fine. In fact, I think she’s outside, probably trying to get in here to pull me out.”

 

Derek snarls, hands going tight and rough on Stiles’ body. “You’re mine!”

 

“Hey, hey, I know, relax. Look, I don’t know how this is all going to shake out, but we need to get you out of here.”

 

“I can’t leave, the tree needs me. The land needs me,” he argues.

 

“But why? Why did it take you? I mean, everyone kind of thinks you’re dead, dude,” Stiles tells him as gently as he can.

 

“Dead?” Derek’s voice wavers. “The fire.”

 

“Um, yeah. Laura thinks she’s the only one who survived. I mean, they never found your body, but the other remains...well, it was an unnaturally hot fire, so there wasn’t much left to identify.”

 

“They’re all gone,” Derek says, like he’s reminding himself. “I heard their screams, I felt them burn.”

 

“Shit,” Stiles whispers. Definitely a magical fire then. 

 

“Did they catch her?” he asks, eyes burning.

 

“Who, Laura?” 

 

“No, Kate Argent. The one who set the fire.”

 

“Kate Argent killed your family?” Stiles squawks. “Super scary, hunter extraordinaire Kate Argent?”

 

Derek growls, fangs dropping and Stiles feels the nails against his skin lengthen into claws. The weird thing is, he doesn’t feel threatened. Somehow he knows Derek’s reaction isn’t anger toward him, but rather for knowing Kate is free to hurt others, including Stiles and Laura. It’s kind of a giant turn on, actually.

 

“She murdered them and made sure I felt it. She did it to punish me,” Derek spits.

 

“Wait, you knew her? Like, actually knew her, not just  _ of _ her? Why would she do that, the Argents have a code, Alison promised me. And dude, you were like, sixteen when the fire happened, Kate had to have been in her mid-twenties, right? What would she have wanted with a teenaged...oh.” Stiles trails off when Derek pulls away, his shift melting away to reveal an embarrassed flush and a guilty expression. “Wow, okay. Um, you know that’s not your fault, right? I mean, she was an adult, she took advantage of you.”

 

Derek glares at him and retreats further into the root structure. Stiles tightens his grip on Derek’s wrist, forcing him to either stop or bring Stiles into the roots with him.

 

“Derek, listen to me. It doesn’t matter if you wanted her. She was an adult and she abused her power over you. Then she used your trust to murder your family. That is not your fault. I’m not sure who gave her the spell that made you feel what they felt, but we’ll find them, okay? You, and me, and Laura. We’ll find them.”

 

Derek sags into his bindings, weariness and exhaustion clear on his face. “What’s your name?”

 

“Oh, um, ha,” Stiles flushes and steps closer. “Guess I should have led with that, huh?”

 

Derek reaches for him again and some of the roots back off. His hands slide back under Stiles’ shirt, one settling over his heart and the other in the small of his back, hot and steady.

 

“Stiles,” he whispers, so close he can feel Derek’s warm breath on his face.

 

“Stiles,” Derek repeats, their lips brushing together softly, and then there’s pressure, and heat, and tongue, and the next thing Stiles knows is that the groan of the roots is almost as loud as the noises Derek makes as he surges forward, and then Stiles’ back hits the packed earth, cushioned only by Derek’s strong arms. The impact knocks the breath from him, but what does he need with air when he’s got Derek breathing life back into him?

 

And it’s good, dear god, it’s it good. It’s friction and need, and the  _ thing _ between them is lit up like the sun, or maybe that’s Stiles because he’s about 30 seconds from coming and he can’t even get his hands on Derek because of the roots.

 

He jerks away, panic surging when he realizes his hands are restrained. He nearly knees Derek in the crotch trying to get away, but Derek stills him, gently removing the roots that have curled around Stiles’ limbs.

 

“Sorry, I got them excited,” Derek says, bashful.

 

“I can’t stay here,” Stiles blurts, backing himself against the wall. “My dad, I can’t just leave him. And Laura, she won’t let me stay.” The words physically hurt him to say because being with Derek is the most right feeling thing in the world, but Stiles knows he can’t just disappear. He has responsibilities.

 

“You’re mine,” Derek pleads.

 

“I know, and I feel it, too, but Laura, she thinks I’m hers and she’s not just going to let me go. Best case she’ll cut down the damn tree. Then what happens to us?”

 

Derek tries to hide his hurt behind his arms, but Stiles sees it anyway. It’s written in every line of his body and there’s an echo of it in Stiles’ heart because Derek’s right; they belong to each other.

 

“Has she bonded you?” Derek asks quietly.

 

“No,” Stiles shakes his head. “And she’s not going to. Not now. Derek, the connection I feel to her is nothing compared to what I feel with you. I think I’m supposed to be hers, but not like that. She wants me to be her emissary and once she knows you’re alive and what we feel, that will be enough.”

 

“But she asked you to bond,” Derek grumbles.

 

“Because she felt a connection to me and she thought it would solidify her claim on the land. But we didn’t know you were alive, Derek. We didn’t know you were down here, keeping the balance. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

 

Derek nods, glancing quickly up at Stiles, then back down at the dirt floor. “When my mother died, Laura wasn’t here. There was only me, and it wasn’t enough to even out the loss. The Nemeton took me as a ward against the chaos that unbalanced would bring.”

 

“Okay, so why bring me here now? What’s changed?”

 

“I don’t know,” Derek tells him, looking pained. “It speaks to me, but it doesn’t tell me things. Not really. It answers my needs and keeps me company, but I can’t read its intentions. The tree is a part of me, but I’m not a part of it, does that make sense?”

 

Stiles gives him an encouraging smile. “Yeah, I think so. But you were obviously okay down here, I mean, you haven’t wasted away to nothing. So why am I here? Has something changed up there that means the tree needs another power to feed off of?”

 

“You would know better than I would,” Derek scoffs.

 

“Laura has betas now,” Stiles tells him, grinning when that gets Derek’s attention. “The wonder triplets.”

 

“She turned triplets?”

 

“No, not really, I just call them that. They’re young, but strong. Boyd, Erica, and Isaac. They’ve been good for her, I think. They let her mother them and boss them around.”

 

“Sounds like Laura,” Derek says quietly, but there’s a soft smile teasing his mouth up at the corners.

 

“So maybe this is the opposite of what the tree needed before. The Alpha is settled, she’s working on her pack, she has an emissary, or will once I’m out of here. Maybe the balance has been restored and the Nemeton is ready to let you go.”

 

Derek looks wary, but there’s a hint of cautious hope in his eyes as he looks around at his bindings.

 

“I tried to free you then and I think it did something to me. What I can do, my power, it isn’t like other sparks. It’s more. It’s other. Derek, I can heal myself now. I think I can somehow channel your abilities. And if I can do that, there’s no way I’m supposed to leave here without you.”

 

Derek curls in on himself, letting the roots cover his vulnerability. “I’ve been here for so long, I wouldn’t be any good out there.”

 

“You know that’s not true. Laura needs you, Derek. Her betas are fine, but she needs her brother. She needs family,” Stiles tells him, crawling closer until he can reach through the roots and grip Derek’s narrow ankle. “And I need you.”

 

“I dreamed of you,” Derek tells him again. “Of you coming here. Freeing me from this. I didn’t think you were real.”

 

“This may surprise you, but I get that a lot,” Stiles laughs. “Only it’s not usually meant as a compliment.”

 

“I miss you when I’m awake,” Derek confesses, sending more of the roots away so he can pull Stiles into his lap.

 

Stiles leans into him, cradling either side of Derek’s neck. “I didn’t remember you once I woke up, but I think I missed you anyway. None of this makes sense and we might be half crazy, but this is Beacon Hills and that’s kind of par for the course.”

 

Derek huffs against Stiles’ cheek, hands smoothing down his back.

 

“Tell me about your dreams,” Stiles whispers into his ear, making Derek flush and hide his face against Stiles’ shoulder. “Come on, tell me. We’re kind of past the awkward stage, aren’t we? I mean, we were just dry humping on the ground after knowing each other for all of half an hour.”

 

Derek looks up at him, eyes dark and so intense Stiles has to remind himself to breathe. “I’ve known you longer than that.”

 

“Tell me how you’ve known me,” Stiles pleads, squirming.

 

“You come to me here, always willing, always ready. Sometimes the dreams come in flashes, you spread out on the floor, or draped over my back, nail marks down my sides that don’t heal right away.”

 

“You bite me,” Stiles continues, slowly rolling his hips against Derek. “Sometimes I bite you until you come all over yourself.”

 

“Yes,” Derek hisses, licking up Stiles’ neck. “You let me mark you everywhere. Let me cover you in my seed until I can’t smell where I end and you begin.”

 

“Jesus, I think we’ve been having the same dreams,” he pants, letting Derek divest him of his shirt.

 

Derek grunts and latches onto a nipple, making Stiles arch into his mouth. He pulls off a moment later to mouth at Stiles’ pec. “Sharing dreams,” he says against skin.

 

“God, that is so much hotter. Maybe that’s why I’m here.”

 

“Really?” Derek chuckles into Stiles’ armpit.

 

Stiles squeals and shoves Derek’s head away. “Not just to fuck, dude, to bond. Maybe that’s how we get you out of here.”

 

“You would bond me?” Derek asks, looking dumbfounded.

 

“Yeah, dude. I mean, we kind of already are. But the Nemeton took you because the Alpha of the land wasn’t strong enough, right? It needed more to keep things calm. Well, now the Alpha has power, and stability. A pack, an emissary. What if the last piece of the puzzle is a bond?”

 

“Wouldn’t that mean you bonding with Laura like she wants?” Derek asks, face growing dark and distant again.

 

“She doesn’t  _ want _ it, she just thinks that’s what she’s supposed to do,” Stiles corrects. “You’re the one the Nemeton took, Derek. Bonding with you makes way more sense than bonding with Laura. She’s the Alpha, but the territory has been held intact by your power all these years, not hers. Maybe it’s time to hand it over so you can be free.”

 

The roots throb and twine around them and Derek looks up into the tangled maze that is the underside of the tree.

 

“I think you’re right,” he whispers. “But nothing comes for free.”

 

“What does that mean?” Stiles asks, eyeing the roots warily.

 

“The Nemeton demands a sacrifice.”

 

“Oh god, what now? What more can it want?”

 

“The bond,” Derek says, the tips of his ears going pink. “It needs to happen here.”

 

“Here. As in right here?” Stiles points at the dirt floor. “Are you freaking serious?”

 

Derek bites at his jaw, apparently warming to the idea. “Hmm, right here. The Nemeton needs a promise that the balance will remain. We need to prove the bond to it and share our offering.”

 

“Our offering? You don’t mean—”

 

“We need to spill our seed. A sacrifice to the land. An oath that we will grow the pack and keep it strong. That we will take each other and protect the Nemeton with our lives.”

 

Derek’s hands are now down the back of Stiles’ pants, squeezing his ass in a very suggestive manner, and quite frankly, Stiles is surprised he still has the brain cells to question this whole bonding business.

 

“Okaaay, but the whole ‘grow the pack’ thing, that’s figuratively, not literally, right? I’m not going to get freaky werewolf pregnant, right?”

 

Derek laughs and flips Stiles onto his back, covering him with his long, warm body. “What, you don’t want me to breed you?” There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes and his fangs have dropped, but Stiles can feel Derek’s rock hard erection pressing into his hip and he’s pretty sure Derek is teasing him.

 

“Well, I mean, I’d like to hold onto my youthful figure a little while longer, you know?”

 

“Don’t worry,” Derek growls in his ear. “I’ll hold onto it for you.”

 

“Okay, that was terrible!” he laughs, swatting at Derek’s shoulder. 

 

“Give me a break, I’ve been living under a tree for the past…” Derek cocks his head to the side and thinks.

 

“Ten years, dude.” Stiles provides.

 

Derek blows out a breath and shakes off the hurt the answer brings forth. “You’re here now.”

 

“And I’m not leaving without you, so let’s get this bonding on the road, kay?”

 

“I’ll need to bite you,” Derek tells him, trailing his fingers over the spot where Stiles’ neck meets his shoulder. “It will hurt.”

 

“I’m not afraid of a little pain. Not from you.” Stiles swears and if he thought Derek was turned on before, that’s nothing compared with the look on his face now. His eyes flash blue and his grin is feral before he licks into Stiles’ mouth, fangs dragging against his lips with just enough pressure to increase Stiles’ heart rate.

 

But as Derek moves to press Stiles’ arms above his head, the roots tighten around him, suspending his body above Stiles. Derek whines, trying to fight the bindings, but Stiles stills him with a touch, his palm dragging over Derek’s cheek and down his neck. He uses both hands to exploring Derek’s chest and Derek closes his eyes and tries to arch closer. The roots hold him steady and Stiles swears he can hear them whispering to him. To be still, to let Stiles take the lead. To give himself over to his mate. To trust in a way Derek has only done once before. To erase the pain of his past with the promise of his future.

 

Stiles’ mouth follows his hands, tasting the slight acidity of the dirt that covers Derek’s body, layered with the thick bouquet of his musk and the bright, crisp tartness that bursts over his tongue once he reaches a patch of cleaner skin. And it’s not that Derek is dirty, the earth that covers him is like a second skin, meant to protect and shield him from the roughness of the roots that hold him. It’s as much a part of him as his hair and nails, and Stiles didn’t realize until this moment that he’s been craving it for the past ten years.

 

His hand is curled around Derek’s cock and jerking him slowly before Stiles even registers it. He’s too distracted by the feeling of Derek’s ribs under his teeth and the way Derek pants for more. He licks his way across Derek’s abdomen, chasing the clean, metallic taste that leads to the nest of hair around his cock, and one minute he’s inhaling deep lungfuls and feeling punch drunk on just the scent of Derek, and the next his mouth is full off heavy, hot, uncut cock and the taste and smell surrounds him. He tries to pull Derek down to him, but the roots have Stiles pinned to the ground again. A flare of panic swells in his lungs, but he pushes it away, focusing on swallowing and the desperate noises Derek is making above him.

 

Derek comes without warning, filling all of Stiles senses and weighing him down with a heaviness he feels in his bones. He wants to swallow, to take everything Derek can give him, but he knows what the Nemeton demands, so after holding it on his tongue for another moment, he rolls to the side and spits Derek’s offering into the dirt, hoping it’s enough. 

 

The roots loosen, but don’t let go and then Derek’s hands are on him, a high, desperate whine sending shivers up Stiles’ spine as Derek pulls at his pajama pants, and chases the taste of himself in Stiles’ mouth. His pants turn to shreds under Derek’s claws, but that hardly seems an issue when Derek is already hard again and turning Stiles onto his stomach. He tenses for a minute, but when the roots bring him up on all fours and Derek slips his cock between the tight clench of Stiles’ legs, he relaxes and pushes back into it.

 

“Your turn,” Derek growls, using one hand to tilt Stiles’ head up and back so his throat is bared to him.

 

“Please,” Stiles pants, squeezing his thighs as hard as he can. Derek grunts and pulls out, spitting on his hand and smearing it over his cock before pushing back in, and god, yes, that’s better. His breath is on moist on Stiles shoulder as he mouths where he’ll bite. 

 

“Do it,” Stiles begs. “Fuck, just do it.”

 

Derek laughs, but drags his now blunt teeth over the spot. “Gotta wait. You need to come.”

 

“Seriously?” Stiles whines, but then Derek is jerking him and the protest dies in his throat as a moan takes over.

 

“That’s it,” Derek growls, thrusting lazily. “Let me make you feel good.”

 

“You make me feel like I’m inside out,” Stiles tells him, reaching back to bring Derek closer. “Nothing compares to my dreams of you and the reality is ten times better. I may actually die from this orgasm.”

 

“So dramatic,” Derek chides, but speeds up his hand and his hips. “I love it.”

 

“I love you,” Stiles blurts, squeezing his eyes shut and ducking his head. “I don’t know how or why, but I do. God, Derek, I love you so much.”

 

“You love me enough to give yourself to the Nemeton to save me. To bond yourself to a total stranger so I can be free.”

 

“Not a stranger,” he protests. “I know you from my dreams.”

 

“I could be a nightmare,” Derek says, groaning against Stiles’ skin as the head of his cock rubs the underside of Stiles’ balls.

 

“And you’d still be  _ mine _ ,” Stiles pants. He’s close and Derek’s hand is perfect on him, stroking long and even, driving him closer and closer to the end. Only it won’t be the end, will it? They’re working on a beginning here. Their beginning. Getting Derek out of here means the start of something that’s been building for ten years, when they were both still kids and in more pain than they thought was possible. They’re bound together on so many levels already and this is just one more, albeit deliciously carnal, level. This is the physical bond they get as a reward for the other bonds they’ve already formed.

 

The roots tighten on his wrists and behind his knees as Derek bites down, sinking his fangs into Stiles like his skin is paper thin. Wet heat spreads over his thighs, striping the underside of his cock and dripping to the earth as Derek comes again. There’s more this time, like there’s a backlog of spunk that’s been waiting for just this moment. Derek roars around Stiles’ flesh, using his come to slick Stiles’ cock and jerk him faster, combining the growing power of their bond with the tingling that’s everywhere Derek’s touching him to wrench Stiles’ orgasm out with a desperate howl. The moment he’s done, feeling wrung out but so goddamn full of something that has nestled in his bones and whispers ‘Derek, Derek, Derek’ in time with his heartbeat, the roots leave them. 

 

He manages to land to the right of their messy offering, but Derek rolls him back onto his front, licking the bite clean until it’s fully healed. Stiles can’t see it, but he knows it will leave a scar. A permanent mark on his skin, declaring him as part of a whole. As Derek’s.

 

“Hey, do I get to bite you?” he asks, brain still fuzzy.

 

“If you like,” Derek says, nuzzling the sensitive skin. “But it probably won’t leave a mark. Not for long, anyway.”

 

“Then how will people know you’re mine? I mean, I’m not trying to get all possessive, but—” he gestures to his bond mark.

 

Derek levers himself up just enough to roll Stiles onto his back, lowering himself down gently and kissing him thoroughly. 

 

“You’re trying to distract me,” Stiles accuses when Derek lets up.

 

“No, I’m trying to enjoy you.”

 

“Are you going to answer the question or not?”

 

“Well, I assume when you swell up with my pups, people will know for sure,” Derek says, rubbing his hand over Stiles’ abdomen.

 

“Wait, what?” Stiles sputters. “You said—Derek Hale, I better not be werewolf pregnant!”

 

Derek laughs into Stiles’ chest, his shoulders shaking so hard he’s grinding Stiles into the dirt floor. “Stiles, everything we did ended up on the floor, how could you be pregnant? You didn’t even swallow.”

 

“Fuck, right,” Stiles breathes, throwing his arm over his eyes. “And werewolf pregnant isn’t really a thing, right? Derek? Right?”

 

“I love you,” Derek tells him, a dazzling smile on display, and then they’re kissing again.

 

They’ve barely started moving against each other when there’s a loud crack and a golden light floods the cavern.

 

“I think we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Stiles says, pushing Derek off him. “Too much of a good thing.”

 

“Must be,” Derek says, helping Stiles to his feet. He looks back at the roots of the tree, at the magic that kept him safe and alive for ten years. He brushes a hand over one that creeps closer. “Thank you.”

 

The root slides over his forearm, like it’s caressing him, and then they’re being shoved toward the light.

 

Stiles pulls his t-shirt over his head and calls for his flare as he takes Derek’s hand. His pants are ruined and Derek’s naked and covered in dirt, but somehow he doesn’t think the others will mind. He can hear them on the other side, cursing and wondering at the mysterious light. 

 

“But they’re gonna know, right?” he says, hating how small he sounds.

 

Derek smiles and cups his cheek. “Yeah, Stiles, they’ll know. Your name is written all over my soul, everyone’s going to be able to see it.”

 

Derek kisses him chastely, turning sharply when Laura calls Stiles’ name.

 

Stiles squeezes his hand. “You ready for this?”

 

Derek nods, gazing through the light to where they can see the shape and shadow of the others, and takes the first step.

  
“Stiles, what the fuck did you— _ Derek? _ ”


End file.
